


Sick Again, Huh?

by Parksborn



Series: The Life and Times of Peter Parker and Matt Murdock [17]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Vomit, emetophobia warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 22:29:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parksborn/pseuds/Parksborn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I did this for one of my most admired artists/inspirations on tumblr. If you've got a thing against vomit, this probably isn't for you. If you don't and it is, please enjoy!</p>
<p>(I'm tired and this is unbeta'd. Please excuse any of my mistakes.)</p>
    </blockquote>





	Sick Again, Huh?

**Author's Note:**

> I did this for one of my most admired artists/inspirations on tumblr. If you've got a thing against vomit, this probably isn't for you. If you don't and it is, please enjoy!
> 
> (I'm tired and this is unbeta'd. Please excuse any of my mistakes.)

It's the dizziness that gets him the most. It throws out his radar, makes it swirl and glitch and fizzle. He stops his patrol just for that fact—he can't be safe on these roofs with his radar spotting out like this, and he can't save anyone else in this shape, either. He blinks slowly, settling himself down on the edge of the roof. He cradles his head with one hand, and his stomach with the other—the culprit of this situation. He'd been fighting with the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach all day, skipping lunch in favor of lying down, the feeling of phantom bile in his throat too much for him to keep focused on his cases.

Several hours later, he was in the same situation, except he was sitting on the roof of a building in Hell's Kitchen, the noises in his stomach getting gradually louder and more painful, making his muscles tense and ache with the anticipation and need to vomit. He groaned and doubled over on himself, his world of magenta bands falling in on and over itself as his stomach barrel rolled inside of him. A single, violent gag, and he's swallowing thickly to try and counteract it, his mouth salivating in attempts to protect his teeth from the oncoming wash of acidity and damage.

Matt groans softly to himself, shaking his head. No, no. He can't just loose his stomach here, especially not in his suit, not in such a compromising position. He could just imagine it—the word seeping through the C-Lister's that Daredevil's got a stomach bug, and it's time to run their petty crime asses around his Kitchen. No. He had to at least make it home until he embarrassed himself.

He shakily launches his grappling hook across to another building, but the moment the momentum of the swing hits his stomach, his abdomen's muscles are twisting up and trying to expel their contents. He swallows and pants, and swallows and pants and gags and oh, no—his stomach lurches, and bile leaks into his mouth and past his lips, burning his throat even more as he forced the rest of the bitter, acidic liquid back down, blind eyes watering and stinging with the smell of the vomit spindling down his chin and jaw.

He simply groans and continues back to his home—not long now, he's sure. He takes it slow, swinging as little as he could, grappling up the fire escape into his apartment, limbs too shaky, heartbeat pounding and stomach churning, and churning, and churning until—“ _Hgkk_ —!” He snapped one hand over his mouth, body freezing and tensing one more time, muscles squeezing in on his stomach. Vomit and bile spurted out from between his fingertips, saliva-mixed and thick, stringing down from his cupped palm to his elbow until it dripped onto the floor.

“Matt—?” Matt's head snapped up, body shaking with the effort to not only hold itself up, but also with the need to hold back the next round of vomit.

“Pete, what the— _hurk_!” Matt swallowed, eyes squeezed shut, cheeks burning red in embarrassment. If only he'd known the kid would be here, he would've let himself get sick in the middle of the city instead.

Peter padded over to Matt, removing the towel from his hair, apparently recently showered, and gently wiped at Matt's arm and face and suit. “Sick again, huh?” he asked, biting his lip unhappily.

“Stop that. You aren't—aren't supposed to be here,” Matt gritted through clenched teeth.

“ _You_ stop, Hornhead. Can you make it to the—” Matt's body lurched a little, a little more bile leaking from Matt's lips, stringing down from his chin and arm, as much caught precariously in his hands as possible. “Nope. Never mind,” Peter sighed, grabbing the trashcan and sitting it on the towel in front of Matt, plopping down next to it. Matt lowered himself down to the floor, letting his stomach roll and empty itself of any more of its bitter contents.

“Coffee,” Peter notes, nonchalantly wiping up the floor where Matt's vomit had dripped and dribbled.

“Shut uh- _gkk_!” Matt's eyes watered as his body ached through a lengthy round of dry heaving, the tears falling into the trashcan as well as small bits of foul smelling bile. Peter padded out of the room to grab a wet washcloth, coming back to wipe Matt up, cleaning off his face first. “It's coming out of your nose,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Every time I see you sick, it's only with a stomach bug. You know, next time, you're getting a cold or something. Don't care what your belly has to say,” he said, sounding a little tired.

Matt huffed. “You're not my nurse, Peter,” he sighed out, his stomach settling for the moment. “Don't need to be babied, you know.”

Peter smiled a little. “Well—everybody needs to be babied sometimes, Matt,” he murmured quietly. “'Specially you, Mister Macho Murdock.” Matt simply grunted and pushed himself up, taking off his soiled gloves and dropping them into the towel Peter had put underneath the trash can.

“Need a shower. Go to bed,” he grumbled, grabbing the towel and trash can before walking away from Peter.

“Hey—! I could've taken care of that, you hardheaded grump!” Peter calls, getting up with a hand holding the towel tied around his waist, clearly miffed. He fusses at Matt as he cleans up the trashcan, but allows Peter to throw his suit and the dirtied towel and rag into the wash. After a bit, Peter walked into the bathroom, going to brush his teeth and get ready for bed. “How's your tummy feeling, Mattie...?” he asked, frowning as he didn't hear anything but labored breathing, and then Matt's stomach finally roiling and purging more bile. “That good, huh?”

“Shut up,” Matt grumbled from inside the shower.

Peter sighed. “Just—hurry up. Then you can lie down and sleep, alright?” he said gently, and soon thereafter, the water shut off. Peter handed Matt a clean towel, and asked if he needed any more help.

“I'm not an invalid, Peter,” Matt said, glaring at the younger man.

Peter huffed. “I'm just trying to help.”

Matt towel dried his hair and then wrapped it around his waist, going to brush his teeth as his stomach ached and sloshed uneasily. “You could help by going to bed,” he grumbled after spitting. “Or by telling me what you were doing here, anyway.”

Peter scoffed. “I'm your boyfriend. I'm not allowed to come over?”

“You don't have a key to my place,” Matt deadpanned. Peter ducked his head, and Matt sighed, pushing a hand through his wet hair. “Did you at least lock the window back after you snuck in here?” he asked tiredly.

“Yup. Now, c'mon. Let's go to bed. You think your tummy's gonna settle enough for you to get some sleep...?” Peter asked, nudging Matt out of the bathroom and towards his bedroom. Matt nodded, and Peter sighed a little in relief. “Good.”

As Matt got dressed in a pair of old, worn out sweatpants, he asked, “You need some pajamas?”

Peter shook his head, and Matt gave him a stern look. “You're not just going to sleep naked. It's winter. You'll be complaining that you're cold. Clothes. Now.” Peter sighed heavily.

“You know, I'm supposed to be the one taking care of you here, not the other way around,” he huffed, pulling on an old pair of pajama pants and a tee shirt of Matt's, swimming in both. “I'm drowning in your clothes, Matt,” Peter grumbled, crawling into bed with the older man.

“And whose fault is that?”

“Definitely yours.”

“Go to sleep, Peter.”

“ _You_ go to sleep.”

“...I love you, kid.”

“Hey! I'm not a kid. ...But I love you, too, Mattie...”


End file.
